Ghetto Girls

by Anthony Whyte

  “Hmm,” Sophia moaned. Eric’s lips now pressed against her exposed upper thigh.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “Why didn’t you just end that mo’fucka’s life right there, Vulcha? You should’ve killed him and his bitch,” Lil’ Long yelled into the receiver.

  “Yeah, yeah, I should have, but I wanted you to know. That mo’fuckin’ Rightchus was on point again, sun.”

  “Th-th-those m-mo-mo’fuckas go-got con-contract on us? Who they th-think they d-dealing wid, huh? Mo’fuckin’ fools? Vulcha, come get me now, ni-nigga.” Lil’ Long slammed the phone into the cradle.

  “Yo baby, I gotta to take care of business, Ahight? I’ll call you later,” Vulcha said and glanced over at Kamilla.

  “Leave me some money,” she said.

  “What do you do wit’ all this money?” Vulcha took out five one-hundred dollar bills and set them on the night stand. He had called Lil’ Long from Kamilla’s place and he was upset. He felt Busta had done the wrong thing. He had known Busta since he was a little boy running the streets and Busta was a big-time drug dealer. Now he had gone legit. But why had he put a contract on Vulcha and Lil’ Long?

  Vulcha paused and watched as the rain sprinkled the Navigator’s roof. The droplets formed tiny puddles. It’s not coming down so hard; he thought and quickly walked to the vehicle. Vulcha opened the door, got in and drove to meet Lil’ Long.

  Kamilla dressed and left immediately. I have to see those girls, she thought as she hurried from the apartment. She hailed a cab and headed for the high school. At the school, she learned of Danielle’s wake. She quickly found another cab and headed for the funeral home.

  Lil’ Long and Vulcha rode to the sound of weapons being cocked and un-cocked, magazines being loaded then unloaded. Vulcha parked the SUV in front of Busta’s apartment.

  “You wanna do this alone, kid?” Lil’ Long asked.

  “Why?” Vulcha asked.

  “Cuz he was your man, know wha’ I’m saying?” Lil’ Long asked.

  “Yeah, I hear you, nig. But this strictly ‘bout biz? Ain’t no mo’ friendship bullshit. You feel me? It ain’t going down like that. Da nigga done crossed us,” Vulcha said determinedly.

  “Word is bond, and a mo’fucka that does that has to be dealt with. Know what I mean? He was your man. You wanna handle da biz?”

  “That’s peace,” Vulcha said.

  “Ahight, let’s do this.”

  “What? Man it’s been on,” Vulcha said with a grimace, which spoke of vengeance. But his tone dripped of sarcasm as he continued. “Yeah, let me give this fat muthafucka the big pay-back.”

  “Yeah, yeah, handle your biz, sun,” Lil’ Long said offering his right fist for encouragement.

  They walked away from the Navigator. Both were decked out in black leather jackets over black T-shirts and black jeans. Lil’ Long’s Afro was neatly braided. Vulcha walked a step in front, collar up, with a black beret to shield his bald pate. Killing without fear was the thing these urban angels of death performed. Vulcha flaunted a pair of nine-millimeter Glocks, cocked and ready. Behind him, Lil’ Long had twin Desert Eagles strapped to his right side. They got off the elevator and found Busta’s apartment.

  Vulcha rang the doorbell. Lil’ Long stood guard next to the stairs. He swayed as if drunk. Vulcha rang a second time. He heard sounds within the apartment, but the door did not open.

  “Busta, whassup? Got some biz to see you on, big man,” he called through the door. He rang the bell for the third time, nodding to Lil’ Long. The rattling of the door caught his attention. Vulcha stood and waited. He was uneasy now. Just as nervous as on that cold morning when he was released on parole after serving nine months of a one-year bid. Back then, it seemed like every day was cold. He was trying to survive on the streets. Snatching chains was all he knew—a street specialty that yielded long ropes of gold but was short on cash.

  Busta had owned and operated many weed spots back then. He hired Vulcha immediately when he saw the young Vulcha stalking his victims.

  “You gonna have to keep getting up after getting your swerve, kid. Doeth unto others, know-wha’ I’m saying? Why take his shit in violence? Take it in peace, see? You don’t have to hurt the brother. Come, I’ll show you,” Busta had told him. Vulcha listened. His eyes grew wider as Busta peeled a crisp hundred-dollar bill from a thick wad of bills.

  Busta continued: “Brothers will pay for all types of entertainment, cuz we love that type o’ shit. Nobody else love that shit like we do. We wait on long lines in the coldest of night, searching through our pockets trying to get into a nightclub.” Busta placed the clean bill on top of a public phone, damaged by an angry user. Vulcha had taken the bill and several more.

  Vulcha ran one of Busta’s weed spots. It kept him indoors, out of the cold, but it landed him another stretch in jail for parole violation. He had never repaid Busta for his kindness, Vulcha remembered as he waited.

  “Who dat? Who is it? Ooh, aah, agh. Shit.”

  Vulcha heard the hiss of passing bullets. He turned in time to see smoke departing the silenced, shiny muzzle of the Desert Eagle held in Lil’ Long’s left hand. He turned and stared at the space carved by the bullets. They had ripped the upper half of the door nearly to shreds and mutilated Busta’s heavy body with holes the size of baseballs.

  “These rhino shits are really bad, dogs. I’m telling you, da rhino rounds will penetrate anything. Don’t sleep. Damn!” Lil’ Long shouted.

  Vulcha realized what had transpired. He pushed, and the door swung open. He stood back as if to admire the handiwork, awed by the damage done by the bullets.

  Vulcha walked slowly into the apartment without speaking. He glanced around, guns clenched tightly in each hand as if he expected Busta to rise. Busta’s bleeding body moved in slow convulsions. Thick red blood flowed, staining the soft, plush, earth-hued rug.

  Vulcha ambled over to Busta’s jerking body. He dropped a one-hundred dollar bill in the spreading blood stain. He fired twice and Busta’s body jerked for the final time. Vulcha slowly shook his head as Lil’ Long spewed his venom.

  “All weak mothafuckas must die in order for me to achieve immortality. Niggas must perish. That’s why we still here, kid. I don’t joke when I go to smoke a mo’fucka.” Lil’ Long held his Desert Eagle high. Vulcha gaped, grasping for words. They came in an uncontrollable outburst.

  “I—I thought…I thought I was da one to take care of this fucking problem. It was my problem. He was my man, remember? We go way back. What—What, you don’t trust me or sump’n?” he asked.

  “You’re heated, nigga. I saved your fucking life and you don’t even...” Lil’ Long began his search, lifting long gold chains with heavy medallions, rummaging through drawers.

  “Let’s go, Vulcha. This fat mothafucka kept everything in da fucking bank. All I see is bank receipts. Let’s get his producer friend. You can shoot his ass. But are you getting soft, nigga?”

  Vulcha looked at his old friend’s apartment. He fired one of his nine-millimeters twice into Busta’s head. Then he leaned down and removed a diamond encrusted ring from Busta’s twitching left pinky.

  “I knew your ass would want that shit, yo. Let’s go before po-po start hitting the doors.”

  “Yeah,” Vulcha said. “Let’s use da fucking stairs.”

  They were quickly down the stairs and out of the apartment building. The rain was now a slight drizzle. They ran to the Navigator.

  “Let’s find us a music producer, dogs,” Lil’ Long said. He pounded his fist against Vulcha’s.

  The taxi pulled-up outside the funeral home. Kamilla rushed up the steps. She wanted to warn Coco and Deedee. Kamilla was sickened when she saw the mourning family members. She avoided the casket, asking other mourners about Coco’s whereabouts.

  She followed the route she was given in search of Deedee and Coco. On her way, she was startled by a strange voice.

  “You used to be one of Big Hank’s girls. Now you’re Vulcha’s pe
t.”

  “Who are you?” Kamilla asked. She was clearly startled.

  “My name is Rightchus, but you can call me Shorty-Wop. It’s all good. So what’s your game, lady?”

  “Well, how about this. I’m trying to find some friends.”

  “Lil’ Long and Vulcha?”

  “No,” Kamilla said. Her frown showed complete scorn. “Now, how do you have all this info, Shorty?” Kamilla looked down at the diminutive street informant.

  “Oh, those names irritate you, huh? Coco and her friend’s location for twenty. Shorty has to make a living. Whopping shit ain’t that easy, know wha’ I’m saying? I wouldn’t turn down a night wit’ you, baby.”

  “Here.” Kamilla handed Rightchus a twenty. “I wouldn’t go out with you if they paid me a million.”

  “They’re over there, in the diner. They’re probably looking for you, too.” Rightchus was a little upset by Kamilla’s last remark. “Why wouldn’t you go out with me? I’m not the right stature?” Rightchus raised his index and middle fingers of both hands. Kamilla ignored him and hurried to the diner.

  “Cuz I can get that way. I’m gonna blow up soon. I’m working on different angles, you know.”

  “Work on getting yourself a shower, my brother,” Kamilla said over her shoulder.

  “Why you wanna dis a brother? See, it’s women like you that’ll cause a brother to commit murder. Bitch wit’ a problem!”

  Kamilla didn’t hear or see any of Rightchus’ gestures. She was in the diner, where she spotted Coco and Deedee.

  “May I join y’all?” Kamilla asked. “We have to go see Eric Ascot.”

  “That’s my uncle. What is it about?” Deedee asked. She was startled and impatient. Coco stared at the intruder.

  “I overheard Vulcha this morning. He was on the phone. Something about being set up and paying back the person who did it. He mentioned Busta and the music producer, Eric. I will not let them kill anybody else.”

  “Why? You were there when they did Danielle.”

  “When I last saw Danielle, she was alive. Vulcha said that Lil’ Long gave her a suicide knob to slob.”

  “Bullshit. Them mo’fuckas killed her. As far as I know, y’all were together, know wha I’m-saying?” Coco said. Her shrill voice attracted the attention of the other patrons.

  “What y’all staring at?” Deedee asked. “Let’s go. My uncle should be home. They acting like they ain’t never seen people have a discussion before,” Deedee said as they headed for the exit.

  “Ladies, ladies, you haven’t paid,” a disturbed waiter called.

  “How much? Will this cover it?” Kamilla slipped the waiter two twenty-dollar bills.

  “Yes. Wait for your change.”

  The trio caught a taxi and the car sped away. Rightchus ran toward it.

  “Stay out of it. It’s bigger than y’all,” he shouted. “Y’all are not listening. All right then, fuck it. Y’all handle your BI and I’ll handle mine.” He pulled out a cellular phone and dialed. “Can I speak to Inspector Dawson?”

  “Dawson here. Who is this?”

  “Rightchus. Some shots ready to pop. Those girls…”

  THIRTY-TWO

  “Oh shit, we’re getting pulled over? Them mo’fuckas crazy, dogs? Whassup? Your insurance expired or sump’n?” Lil’ Long joked at the police sirens. Vulcha drove on.

  “They better recognize these plates. Niggas know not to fuck wit’ me.”

  “Nigga, you are a non-driving mo’fucka. That’s why da mo’fucka pulling us da fuck over.”

  “Them niggas been on our tail for awhile.”

  “Ain’t you gonna stop, sun? You need to stop and ask da officer where fucking Eric Ascot lives, cuz you akkin’ like you lost, nig.”

  “Stop?” Vulcha asked disbelievingly. “Ahight. I’ll stop, but if this mothafucka keeps me too long, I’m smoking his ass.” He pulled over to the side of the road. “Here they come, walking over like two fucking faggots,” Vulcha said. “What I do? I ain’t done not a damn thing illegal, so why da fuck are you stopping me?”

  “Hello gentlemen,” the officer said politely as he approached Vulcha’s side of the vehicle. “You seem to have a broken tail light.”

  “That shit was fine earlier. Now it’s broken? And that’s da reason for stopping a nigga?” Vulcha asked. Lil’ Long eased the passenger chair back just as the second officer squeezed off three shots that swished by his head. One bullet grazed Lil’ Long’s neck and struck Vulcha in the head.

  “It’s a hit,” Lil’ Long yelled. But it was too late. Vulcha’s body slumped in the driver’s seat. His head fell on the steering wheel, causing a continuous blast of the horn. Lil’ Long opened fire with both guns. He hit one officer twice in the face. The other ducked. Vulcha’s limped body shifted and took several shots in the chest. Lil’ Long returned fire, hitting the second officer. The officer dove for cover, dragging his wounded limbs in a bid to escape. But Lil’ Long overtook him, the fury of the Desert Eagle ripped his face to shreds.

  Lil’ Long ran back to the Navigator. Vulcha’s body was hanging out of the SUV, his blood mixed with the rain, staining the asphalt.

  “Vulcha, Vulcha. C’mon, kid. Talk to me. Fuck! You mo’fucka, don’t die on me, nig. Don’t die on a nigga,” he screamed, cradling Vulcha’s head in his arms.

  Vulcha’s lifeless body had fallen completely from the seat now. Lil’ Long tried blindly to revive him. He walked the body up and down the street, but Vulcha’s legs just dragged and his blood flowed with the rain that was pelting down. Lil’ Long sobbed. He screamed as he laid Vulcha’s body on the street next to the other two bodies. Lil’ Long checked their ID’s. They were the police, all right: Detectives Carter and Sazlowski. On the front seat of the patrol car was a matchbook, inscribed 1-800-HIT-DEAD in red. Lil’ Long threw it on the wet asphalt. For a moment he didn’t know what to do. He listened to the police radio: “Please respond, Detective Sazlowski, Detective Carter. Respond, over. Did you make contact? What is your GTA? Is there a patrol in the sector?”

  Lil’ Long picked up the microphone.

  “In order for me to be immortal, all weak mo’fuckas must die. Sazlowski and Carter are dead. Why was a hit put on me? You can’t use me no more? Fucking cowards. Bitch-asses.” He fired his weapon into the car’s communication system. He looked once more at Vulcha’s body. Then he was off, running like a man possessed.

  Lil’ Long rang Eric Ascot’s doorbell. Sophia promptly answered the door, slightly opening it. Lil’ Long kicked the door completely open and smacked Sophia with the butt of his gun. He stuck the nozzle in Eric Ascot’s chest, while standing over Sophia’s unconscious body.

  The taxi arrived at the house with Coco, Deedee and Kamilla. They witnessed Lil’ Long’s dramatic entry.

  “Is there another way in?” Kamilla asked.

  “Yes,” Deedee said.

  “That’s probably where Vulcha went,” Kamilla said. “He gave me a twenty-two. I’m gonna go back there and surprise him.”

  “Let me go with you, yo.”

  “No, Coco, come with me,” Deedee said. Let’s go through the other entrance and get the guns. Uncle E. keeps them in his bedroom.”

  “Ahight, yo,” Coco said. She helped Deedee climb through the window. Meanwhile Kamilla entered the rear door. She heard Lil’ Long yelling.

  “They killed my man! For what? You mo’fuckas has got to pay.”

  Kamilla, not knowing what she was up against, entered the room and pointed her gun at Lil’ Long. Before she could pull the trigger, Lil’ Long’s gun blasted twice. Kamilla fell in a heap. Her made-up face splattered on the wall like some grotesque artwork. Lil’ Long turned the gun back to Eric. Eric’s mouth gaped. He held his hands high.

  “Put your mo-mo’fuckin’ h-hands d-down, nigga, this ain’t no fucking stick-up. See, it’s like this; in order for me to be immortal, all weak niggas must die,” Lil’ Long said. Then, without warning, an explosion filled the room. Lil’ Long wobb
led and staggered. He turned to see Coco holding a smoking shotgun, and Deedee, pointing a forty-five at him. Another outburst hit him and he slumped on his knees.

  “Take that, Mr. Immortality,” Deedee said.

  “Hello!” Coco said. “Whatchoo know bout that, huh?”

  The Desert Eagle remained in Lil’ Long’s grip as the blood oozed profusely from his slumping body. Deedee took aim and squeezed off one more round. Lil’ Long fell forward, his body twitching.

  An unmarked police car pulled up and two officers jumped out.

  “You better stay here and not move,” one of the officers said.

  “I ain’t going nowhere. Think I’m stupid wit’ all them guns going off?”

  The officers ran to the house and then returned to the car. He keyed the radio.

  “Confirmed killing of Michael Lowe, a.k.a. Lil’ Long. Yeah, two girls took care of him. We have someone by the name of Rightchus, claims he knows both girls. He tipped us off that they would be coming here. Over.”

  “Rightchus. Ah, he’s a good informant. Take care of him. He has given us some very useful tips. We may still be able to use his services.” Rightchus gazed intensely at the police radio. Now he understood his role.

  “You guys really can’t be trusted, huh?” asked Rightchus. His eyes widened as he stared at the police officer, gun drawn and radio in hand. Rightchus never got the answer.

  To be continued...

  GHETTO GIRLS TOO

  Sophia locked the door and turned to see the look on Deedee’s face. She knew something had gone wrong between the girls.

  Deedee’s expression changed to disgust as she slowly made her way down the stairs to stand next to Eric. He was in the midst of drinking a beer and examining the damage to the den and the kitchen. Sophia joined the two near the kitchen. Deedee’s arm was wound about her uncle.